FYODOR · Y/n story by @jessi

The room was cold. Not the sharp, clean cold of winter, but the damp, seeping chill of a place long abandoned. Dust motes danced in the single, slanted beam of gray light that cut through a crack in the heavy velvet drapes.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

a soft, almost inaudible sigh, then a voice, low and terribly familiar So it is true. They said the traces led here, to this forgotten place.

He stepped into the slice of light. His coat was dark, his face pale and starkly beautiful in the gloom. His violet eyes found you immediately, widening just a fraction before settling into an expression of profound, weary relief.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

It has been years. I have looked… everywhere.